


Scion of Kings

by Beleriandings



Series: Nargothrond and Beyond [5]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Childhood, Ereinion Gil-galad son of Orodreth, Family, Multi, parental and parental-ish relationships, trying to reconcile HoME with the Silmarillion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-22
Updated: 2015-09-05
Packaged: 2018-04-16 16:41:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4632558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beleriandings/pseuds/Beleriandings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Ereinion and his mother Melinduilas are sent from Nargothrond to the court of King Fingon at Barad Eithel, he knows his life will change. But he does not yet understand quite how much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My personal headcanon is the version where Ereinion is the son of Orodreth, but I have never actually read a version of that I was fully satisfied with. So I decided to write one! This is also my attempt to explore an in-universe explanation for why Fingon might have been put as Ereinion's father in the published Silmarillion. 
> 
> Also featuring Lalwen/Elenniel(OC) who are mostly incidental to this story but are threaded through a lot of my work because I can't resist.

Ereinion had been dozing off in the seat of the carriage, curled at his mother's side with her arm around his shoulders, when he was woken by a cry from the outriders at the head of the column. He started, raising his head and blinking sleepily, even as he felt the carriage - which had been going uphill for most of the day - suddenly crest a rise. 

"What's going on?" he mumbled. "Ama, are we there yet?"

His mother smiled down at him. "I think we might be. Let's have a look, shall we?"

She twitched open the curtain of the small window through which the bright afternoon sunlight was filtering, filling the carriage with light bright enough to make Ereinion want to squeeze his eyes closed for a moment, before his mother peered out and up at the coachman.

"Are we nearing our destination, Luinír?"

"Why, yes, my lady Melinduilas. There is where the Sirion rises, do you see? And here is the famous view before us now! If the little prince is awake, it's worth a look at least."

She turned back to look at Ereinion, pulling the curtain aside for him to see. "Ereinion, look!" 

He caught his breath, staring out in sudden awe at the sight that was laid out before him. The mountains dropped away, down to a bright green valley far below, the river Sirion shining in the sunlight like a ribbon of molten silver. It rose high above and rushed in bright rills and joyous torrents down the deep cleft in the mountains to the valley floor. But the river was not the greatest wonder; there, emerging from the side of the mountain as though it had been carved from the living rock itself, was a great white keep, its high curtain wall like an enormous stone drum. Sunlight lit the towers in bright white, and high above the standard of the house of Fingolfin was lifted in the freshening breeze. He could see tiny glimmers of metal upon the walls; _people_ , he realised in awe, the guards at their posts reduced to tiny specks by the distance. 

"Barad Eithel" breathed his mother, her voice quiet with some of the awe that Ereinion felt. "Our new home, for the time being. What do you think, Ereinion?"

"I think…" he stammered, struggling to put the excitement building within him at the sight into words. "I think I will like it here."

The gates opened for their retinue as the carriages trundled along the mountain road, the great drawbridge across a final cleft in the mountains that led to the entrance tower being slowly cranked down as Ereinion watched, wide-eyed. 

"Look, my little star" said his mother. "They're expecting us!"

Ereinion ducked her hand that came up to stroke his hair. "Ama" he said, trying to draw himself up a little taller, "I am grown up now. I am to be fostered in the court of king Fingon. I'm not a baby anymore!"

She smiled a little sadly as the shadow of the gatehouse fell across the carriage window. "No, I suppose you're not."

The courtyard bustled with activity as the carriages and riders came to a halt, porters already coming to take their luggage, ostlers seeing to the weary horses. 

It was cold up here even compared to the mountain road they had taken, and Ereinion pulled his woollen travelling cloak closer about his shoulders against the biting wind. He thought of Nargothrond, and how there was never any wind within the endless, interlinked caves, and how he had never seen a sky so wide and bright since they had fled Tol Sirion, the memories hazy as the nightmares of his childhood. _You will be safe there_ , his father had told him when they had said goodbye, but he had also said, _and you will have a place at court, with the chance to rise high_. Ereinion felt a flicker of excitement. 

An unfamiliar voice broke into his thoughts. "Melinduilas? Can it really be you?"

Ereinion looked up, to see his mother's face break out in a smile at a tall woman with long silver hair who stood nearby. "Elenniel! It has been far, far too long."

Then the two of them were flinging their arms around each other in exuberant joy. 

"How are you? You are a lady of the court now? And how is Lalwen? It must be hard for her, after the death of her brother."

"My, you have so many questions, I barely know where to start" said Elenniel. "I am well, and so is Lalwen, though Fingolfin's death has been causing her more pain than she reveals even to me, I think. She tries to be strong for Fingon, who is doing his utmost best to fill his father's shoes, and doing as well as anyone could in these times; you will see. But what of you?" Her face went sorrowful for a moment and she drew back to look at Melinduilas appraisingly. "Mel, I thought you surely lost after Minas Tirith fell. It was such a relief to get the news that you and your family had made it safely to Nargothrond."

"I should have written, I know. Forgive me, will you cousin?"

"Of course! But I thought only your son was to come to us?"

"Change of plan. Orodreth thought it would be best for Ereinion if I come too. Oh, but forgive me! You haven't met Ereinion, have you? Elenniel, this is my son, Ereinion. Ereinion, my sweet, do you remember I told you of my… first cousin twice removed?

"Second cousin once removed, actually" put in Elenniel. 

Melinduilas laughed. "My… _cousin_ Elenniel. We were good friends when we were young girls, at Mithrim, before…" Her face clouded for a moment. "Ah, but it's high time the two of you met each other."

Ereinion smiled and dropped a bow to Elenniel, kissing her gloved hand as he had been taught was courteous at court. "I am delighted to meet you." 

"And I you" said Elenniel, bowing too. "I think you will like it here, young Ereinion." She knelt down so that she was at his eye level, smiling. "Come. I was sent to show you to your rooms and then take you to the king. He wanted to see you as soon as may be convenient for you after you arrived. Will you come?"

Ereinion nodded eagerly, taking the hand she offered him in his right hand, and his mother's in his left. 

\-------

Before, when Ereinion had thought about arriving at their destination, he had always pictured his first audience with king Fingon; he had looked forward to it and imagined what he would say for weeks. Now that it came to it though, all those planned words seemed to flee from him, and Ereinion had to admit that he felt not a little nervous in the presence of the high king. Fingon was looking down at Ereinion from his throne with his crown and his ring of office and a luxuriant ceremonial blue velvet cloak about his shoulders, heavy with golden embroidery, the garb of a true king. But Fingon the Valiant, Ereinion had heard, was not only a king; he was also a brave and near-matchless warrior - so the stories went - with a golden heart and love of music, the son of the great king Fingolfin who had wounded the black foe himself. 

He wondered if and when he should bow as the herald presented him before the king and the few select lords and ladies of his inner circle who stood around. He recognised Elenniel, who caught his eye and gave him and encouraging smile.

"Prince Ereinion Rodnor, son of Prince Orodreth of Nargothrond of the house of Finarfin and the Princess Melinduilas of Nargothrond, lady of the house of Sûlinendis of Mithrim. She too comes before you now to present her son, as per the arrangement with prince Orodreth and King Finrod Felagund."

Fingon regarded him thoughtfully, his bright blue eyes seeming to Ereinion to pierce him with their gaze. "Come here, prince Ereinion. May I call you that? Or do you prefer Rodnor?"

"I prefer Ereinion, your highness" he said shyly, a little surprised that Fingon had asked. 

Fingon nodded, then dismissed the herald and beckoned Ereinion to the dias, standing up as he did so. 

When he came to stand before the throne, Fingon did something unexpected. He leaned down so that they were able to look each other in the eye, and smiled suddenly, the warmest and most kindly smile that Ereinion had ever seen. 

"Welcome to Barad Eithel, prince of Nargothrond" said Fingon, shaking hands with Ereinion in the way that the lords and ladies did when they greeted each other. His grip was firm and warm, and Ereinion wondered why he had been so nervous.. "Your father is a good friend of mine, and I hope that you will be too. As one of the family, the court is open to you." Fingon lowered his voice with a smile, talking to Ereinion alone. almost conspiratorially. "You may attend councils and listen to the doings of the court if you like, though there is no obligation to come to some of the less interesting ones." Ereinion smiled tentatively, and Fingon continued. "Your father said in his letter that you have started your training with the sword and bow and spear, but you will have to continue."

"I am best with the spear, the arms master said" Ereinion told him proudly. 

Fingon nodded approvingly. "And can you ride?"

"A little" said Ereinion. "In Nargothrond there wasn't much chance though, and before that I was too young."

"Well then, you shall learn here" said Fingon briskly. "One day you may join the guard, or my company of horse archers, if such things are your calling. You will also be educated in history, language, politics, rhetoric, philosophy, herb lore and healing, mathematics and music, as well as any craft you wish to learn if the making of things is more to your taste." 

Ereinion nodded. "Thank you, your highness."

"Think nothing of it" said Fingon. "This is your home now, for the foreseeable future, and I will see to it that you are at least well educated." He smiled again. "And there's really no need for such formality, not with our own little inner circle of the family, so please when we are alone feel free to call me Fingon, or uncle, if you like."

Ereinion blushed. He supposed the high king was almost his uncle in a way, though he had never thought of it like that before. "Thank you, your - I mean, uncle Fingon."

Fingon ruffled his hair, his eyes twinkling, and Ereinion wondered why he had found him so intimidating before.

\--------

"He seems a sweet child" said Fingon, taking a sip of wine and settling back into the armchair by the fire, which Lalwen was prodding at ineffectually with a poker. 

"He seems a lot like _you_ were at that age" teased Lalwen, "although I would say you were significantly less shy and more given to bragging…"

"Any child would be shy, coming to a new place and having to be presented before the king like that" said Elenniel. "Why, anyone would, regardless of their age. I think he was very brave."

"Do you think I made it hard for him?" asked Fingon, apprehension slipping into his voice. "I tried to make him feel as comfortable as possible, but I don't know…"

"You were fine" said Lalwen, getting up and smiling at her nephew. "You were if anything _too_ familiar with him."

"And why should I not be? He's family, after all, and seems a good-natured boy."

Lalwen looked at him for a moment, then her face softened. "You're right, of course" she said, a little sadly. "You would have been a good father, you know Finno. But you need to be careful."

He blinked. "What makes you say that?"

"I saw how you were today. Just… he will have to return to his true family, you know. Perhaps it would be best not to get too…" she cast around for the right word "…attached."

"Nonsense, Lalwen" cut in Elenniel. "A little extra love in a child's life never did anyone any harm. He and Melinduilas have travelled far away from home. Ereinion knows he will go back some day, and Finno knows that too, don't you? I think it's wonderful that they got off to a good start."

"Just make sure he doesn't call you _uncle Fingon_ in court" said Lalwen, though there was a smile in her voice. 

"Ah, aunt" said Fingon with a grin. "I am forever grateful that I have you to maintain order and some semblance of tradition around here." He yawned and stretched, peering out of the window at the sky. "I suppose I should go to bed now" he said, finishing off the last of his wine and getting to his feet. "Sleep well, both of you."

"And you" said Elenniel, as Lalwen nodded. 

When he had left, Lalwen sighed, staring thoughtfully into the fire. 

Elenniel sat down beside her, covering Lalwen's hand with her own. "What is it?"

"Nothing" said Lalwen, blinking up at her. "What is what?"

"You were looking… I don't know. Pensive? Troubled."

Lalwen smiled sadly and let Elenniel enfold her in her arms. "Just thinking too much."

"You do that a lot." Elenniel kissed her temple. "About Finno and the little prince?"

"Yes, and about my brother. Sometimes, Finno reminds me of him so much, and I just…"

Elenniel pressed her face against Lalwen's shoulder, holding her tight. "I'm sorry it hurts so much."

Lalwen closed her eyes and let herself enjoy simply being held, the silence between them soft and comforting as the fire flickered in the grate.

\--------

Ereinion stood apprehensively in the centre of the training yard, feeling very small and weighed down by his bulky practice armour. He held a wooden sword in his hand, a little like the one he had trained with before, in Nargothrond. It was different though; it was not that it was too heavy or too long, but the balance was different, the weight slightly wrong. 

Watching from the sidelines, his mother caught his eye and smiled encouragingly, and he smiled back for a moment before quickly rearranging his face into what he hoped was a serious, martial-looking expression.

He pursed his lips and stared around at scattered group of the few children who lived in the citadel, sons and daughters members of Fingon's council, Ereinion supposed. There was a skinny, red-haired girl who seemed to be all sinew, much taller than him and gripping her wooden practice sword as though it were a heavy mace. Then there was a small, pale boy who kept dropping his sword at his feet, and having to bend down and pick it up again. All of them looked close to his own age. He was just beginning to wonder what they thought of him, when the guard captain who would be training them strode into the courtyard. He was tall and broad and burly, his brown hair bound back from his suntanned face with a strip of leather. 

"That's captain Gonendil of the west gate" whispered the small boy beside Ereinion, in hushed awe. "They say he once crushed an orc's skull with just his hands!"

Ereinion blinked up at the huge guard and found it easy to imagine. 

"And that there…" the child dropped his voice even lower, pointing to one side of the courtyard, where a woman stood, straight and still as though she were made of stone "…that's captain Brithwen of the east gate. She's his sister, but all the tales say she could eat Gonendil for breakfast." 

Ereinion squinted at Brithwen, her slim frame, her lighter skin and straight dark hair, bound back in a long braid beneath her helm. She seemed poised, graceful and delicate, her stoney eyes watching them in keen silence, but not a particularly strong or valiant fighter. He frowned, thinking to ask more when Brithwen pointed at them over Gonendil's shoulder. "You two. Listen to your teacher."

"Yes, captain" said the pale boy hastily, and Ereinion nodded along, looking back at Gonendil who was smiling patiently. 

He held out before them a heavy greatsword, hefting it in his meaty hands before them, swinging it in a wide and surprisingly graceful arc as they all looked on in awe. 

He sheathed the sword. "Of course" he said, placing it to one side, "I'm not going to use this in practice." He smiled warmly. "And neither are you, for now." He surveyed the children in the courtyard. "Now, some of you are holding your practice swords correctly, but not all. Let me show you."

The children were placed in pairs presently, set to follow the moves that Gonendil and Brithwen showed them and practice blocking each other. It was an exercise that Ereinion had done before, and considered himself to have progressed beyond long ago.

He was paired with the tall girl he had seen earlier, and he scowled as she hit out at him, far more aggressively and clumsily than the training required, he thought.

The sun climbed high in the sky towards noon as they practiced. Ereinion wished they fought with spears, rather than swords; he was better with a spear. He loved the balance of it, the motions his body made when he wielded it. He was only passable with a sword, and he felt it in every bruise as the girl - her name was Faelathriel, he had learned between blows of her wooden sword - knocked him to the dust. 

Finally Gonendil called a halt for today, and Faelathriel bowed and left him there, even as he was bowing in return. 

He struggled out of his practice armour as the little gaggle of children dispersed, a small group converging about the boy Ereinion had spoken to earlier, who seemed to have acquired a bloody nose over the course of the practice. Ereinion ignored them, watching Gonendil and Brithwen returning to the guard house to prepare for their afternoon duties, he supposed. 

"You fought well today" said a voice behind him.

Ereinion started around, to see Fingon standing by an embrasure. He blushed. "I got knocked down a lot."

"Faelathriel is a little older than you, and has been training with a sword for longer. There's no shame in that."

"I'm better with a spear than a sword, anyway" said Ereinion, mulishly. 

Fingon smiled. "All the more reason to learn the sword. If we practiced only that that we're good at, we'd never get better at much, would we?"

Ereinion looked at his feet. "I suppose not."

Fingon smiled indulgently and ruffled his hair. "You see, you did learn something."

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Soon enough Ereinion's life fell into a rhythm; lessons, arms practice, meals in the great hall or in his rooms with his mother, or sometimes Fingon would invite both of them to dine with him, and sometimes Lalwen and Elenniel were there too. Sometimes he would be asked to play the harp, or sing what he had learned that day, and sometimes Fingon would accompany him on his own harp, and Elenniel on her Mithrim cittern, which made his mother smile, lost in some memory of her childhood perhaps. He loved these evenings most of all. 

Yet Fingon was often away from Barad Eithel too. He regularly went on scouting trips with the guard, or took his company of horse archers out for exercises, or to put a stop to the latest incursion of Morgoth's orcs into Hithlum. These last were usually small, easy victories, he knew from listening into the talk of the returning archers, and Fingon always came back from these trips energised but less restless than he so often seemed. 

 _But, if the war is going so well_ , Ereinion thought sometimes, _why have we not yet beaten Morgoth?_

Having no answer, he usually put that thought aside, to be considered later. 

Ereinion often wished that he could ride out with Fingon, could help in some way himself. But he had felt obliged to ask his mother first, and she had only protested that he was far too young, and besides, he had been sent here to keep him safe. Ereinion gritted his teeth in frustration at the mere memory.

When he had asked Fingon, the response had barely been any different, now that he thought back on it. "You're still a child, Ereinion, no matter how valiant" Fingon had said with a sigh. "You are not yet fully trained in arms." He had sighed sadly then, and Ereinion had wondered at that, for he had thought that Fingon found the greatest joy in battle. "If nothing changes from how things are now, this war will never end, and you will have chance enough to fight."

"Then… we are not in any immediate danger?" tried Ereinion. "Our side is not losing?"

Fingon's smile was bitter. "No. But neither are we winning." 

\--------

Ereinion laid down his pencil as his mother came into their solar, turning around to smile up at her. "Good morning, Ama!"

"Good morning, my studious son" laughed Melinduilas, coming over to ruffle his hair. "What are you learning today?"

"I'm looking at the maps that Fingon leant to me!" said Ereinion excitedly, showing her. "Look, here is lake Mithrim, where you're from and where grandfather lives. Here is the Sirion, and we are here, where it rises, see? Barad Eithel. And it flows all the way down through Doriath, and look, it passes not too far from Nargothrond! That's where Ada and Finduilas are. And then it flows out into the sea, in the Bay of Balar, here."

She sat down beside him on the bench. "Yes, that's right. And here's the Narog, where you used to watch the fish jumping, remember? That flows into the Sirion too."

He nodded. "I remember." Then he frowned, tracing his fingers over the map. "That's Tol Sirion, there" he said, pointing at island that divided the Sirion's flow, neatly labeled in black ink. "Where we came from. But…" he frowned. "I was wondering why did we not come here from Nargothrond along the Sirion? We should have seen it on our way, shouldn't we?" Ereinion would have liked to have seen his old home again; he had not considered it on their way to Barad Eithel, but now he felt a curiosity well up within him. "Why didn't we go past it?"

Melinduilas sighed. "Your father and king Fingon agreed that our party would take a detour through the mountains, in order to avoid Tol Sirion. It was longer, but… safer."

"Safer?"

She hesitated for a moment. "Ereinion, how much do you remember of Tol Sirion?" 

He thought about it. "I remember my room, with the blue curtains" he said. "I remember the sunlight on the river, and Finduilas showing me the herons and the kingfishers."

She stroked his hair. "Do you remember the day that we… left?"

He shook his head. "Not really, Ama."

"No reason you should really, you were only a very small child at the time. It was…" a cloud passed over her face. "We had to flee. There was a battle, and the island fell. Many of our people died, and it was only luck that allowed our family to escape. Your father stayed behind, of course, to defend the island in Finrod's name, and I thought…" she shook her head as though to clear it, folding her hands in her lap to still them. "Well, it's all in the past. Your father came back, and now he is safe in Nargothrond."

"If it's so safe in Nargothrond" said Ereinion apprehensively, "then Ama, why were we sent here?"

She gave him a long look. Then she sighed. "That is a question you would have to ask your father."

Ereinion nodded, slightly thrown by how afraid his mother looked. He had never noticed before. "Alright. I will ask him, when I see him again."

\---------

Ereinion gazed into the mirror, raking a brush through a stubborn tangle of his thick dark hair, still wet from his bath. He smoothed down the last of his hair, tugging at the thick formal blue velvet tunic he wore so that it was not quite so tight about the throat. It had a high collar, like the ones the adults wore, and was blue as the sea, dusted with tiny silver stars. It had been a gift from Fingon, when the king had learned it was his begetting day last month. Ereinion he had never owned a piece of clothing he loved more, but sometimes the collar still bothered him. 

He scrutinised his features once more, trying to see his face as a stranger would. _Perhaps a stranger would even think me Fingon's son_ , he thought. Ereinion had thick dark brown hair and brown skin, and he took more after his mother than he did his father, with Orodreth's river of silvery-golden Arafinwean hair. Ereinion had Orodreth's eyes though, that he knew, though mostly he had to trust his mother's recollection as his father's face and the exact shade of his eyes grew more distant and blurred by the day. Blue-green as chips of sea-glass, his eyes seemed dissatisfyingly cold to Ereinion, making him frown. _Fingon's eyes were a warm blue, like the sky on a summer evening_ … Ereinion shook his head, drawing his eyes from the mirror. _No_ , he told himself. _You silly child, no one will ever mistake you for Fingon's son. You shouldn't even be wanting them to. You have a proud heritage of your own, your mother, your father, your sister, King Felagund, Nargothrond_ …

The thoughts made him feel uncomfortable, without quite being able to name the reason why.  

At that moment there was a knock on the door. 

"Ereinion?" came his mother's voice, muffled by the wood. "Are you nearly ready? Hurry, sweet one, or we'll be late for the feast."

"I'm nearly done" called Ereinion, as she let herself in.

"Oh, dear" she said, tutting at the sight of his hair. "You're really _not_ done, are you?"

He flushed a little. "Not really" he said. "I don't know what to do with my hair."

Melinduilas drew up a chair with a sigh. "Come on, I'll braid it for you. You're certainly old enough to do it for yourself now, but it'll be quicker."

He nodded. "Thank you, Ama." He hesitated for a moment. "Could you braid it with… gold? Like Fingon has his?"

For a moment she hesitated, giving him a long look, and Ereinion thought he even saw a flash of sadness. But when he was about to speak again, thinking he had done something wrong, she smiled as though nothing had happened. "Of course I can, love. If that is what you want."

\---------

Time passed, seasons giving way to seasons. One day, Fingon was waiting for him after sword practice as he often did these days, sitting down in the alcove and patting the stone ledge beside him. Ereinion trotted over and sat down beside the king. 

"You've improved" said Fingon. 

"Really?"

"Really."

Ereinion smiled up at Fingon. "Thank you, uncle Fingon."

Fingon smiled back as he stood up, motioning for Ereinion to follow him. "Come on, I want to show you something." Fingon was leading him up the stairs to the tallest watchtower, he realised with a twist of excitement. 

"How do you like your teachers?" asked Fingon, as they climbed the stairs. "Are they treating you well?"

"Gonendil is nice. Brithwen is… well she's a bit…"

"Frightening?" 

"No!" said Ereinion, though in truth that had been the word that had crossed his mind. "Well, maybe a little."

They had reached the top of the tower now, and the wind buffeted at them even as they stepped into the bright daylight, tugging at Ereinion's hair and tunic and whipping Fingon's cloak out behind him.

"She was ever so. She is tough and unyielding, but never cruel. Those qualities make for a strong captain." He sighed, gazing out eastwards. "We will have need of many such in the times ahead, I think."

Ereinion did not know what to say to this, so he said nothing. But even as they reached the top of the stairs, Fingon shook his head as though to dispel a stray thought, and took Ereinion by the hand with his usual smile. "I wanted to bring you up here" he said, nodding to a guard as they passed. "I can bet that you've never seen a sight as fair as Eithel Sirion on a bright summer morning from the tallest tower." 

They stood in an embrasure and gingerly, Ereinion peered out over the parapet, his fingers splayed out on the stone. He had seen the valley before, of course, as they arrived and every day since, but never like this; from up here here he could see it all, under the gusting clouds of a sunlight day. The torrent of the Sirion rushing and foaming, the rocks and the rapids, the swaying grasses that lined its near bank. The white heights of the Ered Wethrin which cradled the great keep in which they stood, curving around at their back to catch the valley in a rocky crescent, out of which lead the paved road of the king. Beyond lay the grey brown expanse of Anfauglith, stretching on and on into the threatening north. Yet somehow, all that dull ash made the green grass by the river side seem even brighter, the rush of the waters more vital and joyous.

"Look!" said Fingon, leaning down beside him and pointing, and Ereinion laughed in sudden wonder as a flight of elegant, pale grey birds took wing from the water, bright foam flying as their feet skimmed the surface. 

Ereinion clapped his hands in delight, forgetting for a moment that he was trying to seem older and more dignified before the king. "What are they?"

"They're herons" said Fingon. "They live by the river."

Ereinion nodded. "We had those at Tol Sirion, when I was little" he said, frowning suddenly. "I only just remembered." He hesitated for a moment. "I suppose none live there now."

Fingon sighed, his face darkening with regret. "Much that once was is lost. I regret that Tol Sirion was allowed to fall to the enemy. I should have been there to help my cousins hold it."

"But weren't you busy fighting here?" Ereinion looked up at Fingon, confused by his sudden change in temperament. "You have your own lands to look after."

"True" said Fingon, "but I was the son of the king, and now I _am_ the king. My duty is to all the lands, and to all our people. To keep them safe."

Ereinion frowned out into the bright sunshine of the green valley below. "It seems quite safe here, to me."

"For now" said Fingon, his face uncharacteristically grave. "But war will return to these lands, I know it." he looked down at Ereinion. "I've been meaning to tell you, actually. I will soon need to go to Dor-lómin, to take council with lord Galdor and his sons. Lady Lalwen and the guard will hold Barad Eithel while I'm gone, but if all goes to plan I won't be away long… and when I get back there may be news to tell."

"Take me with you!" said Ereinion on an impulse. "I would be good, I would hold your sword and helm and I would be very good and very quiet!"

Fingon smiled sadly. "No, brave one. Your father sent you to me to ensure your safety, and Barad Eithel is the safest place for you."

"But - "

"No buts" said Fingon, gently but firmly. "Maybe when you're older."

They stared out once more at the valley, as the wind lifted their hair. Ereinion watched the light glint off the gold in Fingon's braids. 

Fingon knelt down before him, so that they were at eye level. "Look at me, Ereinion."

Ereinion did, meeting the king's bright blue eyes, which held so much warmth.

"I am going to make this world _safe_ " said Fingon, his eyes shining. "That's what this war is all about. That's why we're fighting, to try to end this once and for all. That is what a king owes his people, I think. he must, at the very least, keep them safe." He sighed, chucking Ereinion under the chin. "And to do that, I'm afraid I must make sacrifices. The war effort, as it stands, takes a lot of coordination and long diplomatic trips, though hopefully this one should pass without incident. But trust me when I say, I will return soon." He smiled once more. "I will want to see how you've progressed with your lessons and your training, when I return."

Erieinion nodded furiously. "You will" he assured the king. 

Fingon smiled cheerily. "Glad to hear it." He was just turning away, motioning for Ereinion to follow, when Ereinion frowned, narrowing his eyes as he stared into the bright glare off the river. He could see black specks, issuing from across the plain, half-visible in the dust-haze… "Fingon, what's that?"

Fingon turned immediately, raising a hand to shade his eyes and following Ereinion's pointing finger. He squinted for a moment, before his eyes widened. 

Ereinion tugged on the corner of Fingon's cloak. "What? What is it?"

Fingon turned to look at him, his face hard once more, but distracted. "Orcs" he said slowly. "It looks like a _relatively_ small company…" he felt for the spyglass that often hung at his belt, found it missing, and made a frustrated sound under his breath. The he paused as the alarm call was heard from the guard tower, a bell ringing out somewhere within the keep as the enemy was sighted. "Ereinion" said Fingon, taking Ereinion's hand and leading him to the stairs that led down from the walls. "Go find your mother. Then get to the citadel and don't leave, do you understand? There will be others…" he glanced over his shoulder, and Ereinion could see the black dots spreading across the valley behind him, now accompanied by black smoke rising in plumes that twisted in the breeze, oily darkness in the bright air. Fingon turned him away, leading him firmly by the shoulders to the top of the stairs. "This incursion may be nothing of note, but I must join the guards, and see what may be seen. Now go!"

Ereinion nodded swiftly, alarmed by Fingon's tone, and went. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _"When seven years had passed since the Fourth Battle, Morgoth renewed his assault, and he sent a great force against Hithlum. The attack on the passes of the Shadowy Mountains was bitter, and in the siege of Eithel Sirion Galdor the tall, Lord of Dor-lómin, was slain by an arrow."_

Fingon clattered down the stairs and rounded the corner of the lower wallwalk, coming up on the guardhouse. "Laethir, what news?"

The guard set his spyglass aside. "There are orcs coming from the north, a small party, by all appearances, but the scouts have not returned."

"Thardolin's company? Were they not supposed to return by the east gate this morning?"

"Yes, they were. But still no sign. No messenger, nor bird, not even the horn call."

Fingon's brow furrowed; that was worrying. "Any news from Galdor in Dor-lómin?" The house of Hador held great strength, and would be an asset in any surprise attack if they were not under siege themselves, Fingon thought.

"None, your grace."

Fingon clicked his tongue thoughtfully. He pursed his lips, staring out at the rapidly growing trickle of black and the dust cloud the enemies' running feet threw up on the plain of ash, growing with worrying speed. He made up his mind. "I'll lead a sortie down to the riverbank, just my horse archers and the first company of the guard. It should be easy to keep the enemy from fording the river to our side. Can you get the word out? Find the captains, tell them of my plan."

Laethir bowed and nodded. "Of course, your grace." Then he turned on his heel and was gone, leaving Fingon alone. 

\--------

Fingon almost felt relief at the coolness against his face through the openings in his helm, the rushing, turbulent wind as they rode out of Barad Eithel. Upon his back was his bow, and around him rode his company of horse archers, the skilled warriors and fast friends who were loyal only to him, would follow him into Angband itself if he asked them. It felt good to be riding out with them, despite the threat; lately he had found himself eager for a fight, had been longing to _do_ something, to come head to head with their foe once more. It reminded him of the days when he was merely crown prince, not a king, but bound to serve his father and take a greater active role in fighting back the enemy. Fingon reflected for a moment on those days, when he had been so certain that they always could fight off whatever Morgoth could throw at them. That had been before his father had died though, leaving him the crown and the heavy weight of the grief of a whole people and a realm at war to shoulder. 

He put the thought from his mind and stared ahead, trying to judge whether the enemy was within bowshot. He could see them better now, though his vantage point was lower than it had been from the walls of Barad Eithel. They were fewer in number even than he had first thought, he saw with satisfaction; perhaps they could hold them on the opposite bank of the Sirion with archers alone, which was just as well since the river was too deep and fast to ford at this point, where its flow gushed in a raging torrent between the near green bank and the far ash-grey one, crashing against the mountain boulders tumbled in the stream.

"Spread out along the riverbank" Fingon called to his riders, as they neared the muddy ground by the water's edge. It was treacherous here for horse and rider, Fingon knew; they must be careful. "Swordsmen and the royal guard, fall back to deal with any that get across. Archers, nock and draw, and wait for my signal."

They obeyed hastily. The orcs were rattling shields and spears, though they seemed not to have any bows or other means of firing projectiles across the river, he thought approvingly. Fingon glared into their midst, feeling the hatred for the works of Morgoth in this fair land boil up in him once more. When they were all aligned on the river bank, face to face with the enemy, Fingon brought his horse to a standstill, drawing his own bow. 

"Fire!"

A volley of arrows arced over his head on his command, tearing ragged holes in the company of orcs that lined the opposite bank. He frowned. They weren't fighting, he realised. _Why_ - 

"My king, look!" The voice from behind him was sharp, alarmed. 

Fingon drew his eyes away, twisting and craning in the saddle, to follow the pointing finger of the archer who had spoken. He caught his breath.

Coming down through the passes behind them were new hosts of orcs, vast numbers of them streaming through the mountains, rounding the outthrust arm of the hills and pouring into the open plain. Separating them from Barad Eithel.

 _It was a trap_ , Fingon realised with horror, his eyes widening. _The first host was only a decoy, meant to drawn us out, thinking they were few in numbers, just an ordinary raid like the ones the scouts deal with in the hills every day._ _They must have gotten past the hill forts along the ridge of the Ered Wethrin with stealth alone, for no warning of this greater attack had come_ … He realised their plan was probably designed especially to deal with by the king himself, the elite royal guard and the company of horse archers, drawing them out by their own pride. _And it worked brilliantly_ , thought Fingon, his heart dropping as he regarded the orcs that swarmed across the plain - many mounted on wargs with preternaturally long, loping strides that could outrun the average Noldorin cavalry horse over short distances, he knew from experience - cutting off their way back to the keep of Barad Eithel now, even as the drawbridge was hurriedly drawn up. 

 _At least they are not attacking the keep_ , he thought grimly. _For now_. 

"To the rear!"

Fingon wheeled around, seeing enemies streaming through the cleft behind them. He watched as archers on the walls of the fortress tried to pick them off, but though some arrows found their mark most fell short. 

They were surrounded now, and Fingon replaced his bow on his back, and drew his sword instead, whispering a calming word to his horse, which had grown suddenly skittish. The animal calmed a little, allowing him to turn.

"Draw together!" he called to his company, as the enemy advanced. He could see their eyes now, glimmering through the narrow eyeslits of their helms. He had fought this many foes before, of course, but he did not like the terrain here and they were severely outnumbered. Fingon gritted his teeth. They were within plain sight of Barad Eithel, so soon enough reinforcements would come thundering out across the plains… _all we have to do is hold them off and survive until then_ … _No_ , he quickly corrected himself. _If the enemy wants to trap us, to draw out all our defensive strength from the keep, then we can at least not yield to his plan so easily_. He only hoped that Lalwen and the guards would have enough sense to see that too, and to not send too many to their aid.

His thoughts were interrupted as the first orc lunged at him from warg-back, scimitar meeting his own sword with a ferocious blow that jarred through his whole arm. He did not fall, but gave back, parrying expertly before landing his own blow, though it slipped from the enemy's mail; he was too far away, he should have a longer sword, or a spear, he knew, for this kind of mounted warfare. 

Around him others were attacking too, cries and the clashing of metal beginning to fill the air. Fingon turned his horse and slashed back at the first opponent - he supposed it was a captain, and it had seemed to know who he was too - taking it by surprise, cutting it at the shoulder, black blood spurting from between plate and mail. 

The orc shrieked, its warg leaping at his horse, but Fingon turned aside, striking a blow to its neck that clipped its throat, and it fell beneath the hooves and paws and iron shod feet that were already beginning to churn up the muddy ground of the river bank. He saw one of his own guards fall into the mud, blood blooming at her temple, staining her pale hair with brilliant red. He let out a snarl, stabbing viciously at the nearest orc, slicing its head clean off as it reached for his face with its preternaturally long arms and grasping, clawed hands. 

A war horn rang out from the keep; _one of ours_ , Fingon thought in triumph. Even as he watched, the drawbridge was lowered and a new company issued from the gates, cascading down the ramp that was cut into the mountainside as a stream of white, blue and silver, glimmering in the hazy sunlight. _Lalwendë perhaps_ , he thought, _leading her host to our aid_. His guess was confirmed as he saw a flash of purple and silver, his aunt's sigil and the violet plume of her helm flying proudly in the air as the company rode out. 

He frowned, worried, trying to calculate on the spot how many she had with her, and how many that meant would be left to defend the keep, if more enemies should come. Many were on foot, but that was only to the good out here by the muddy river bank, where many a horse had fallen already in the fray. 

The losses out here on the plain would be heavy indeed, he knew, as he cut at the arm of an orc that tried to pull him from his horse. Yet still, now he was out here he knew he must do all he could to keep the enemy from reaching the keep. _Better a straight fight than a siege_ , Fingon had always thought. His mind went to Ereinion then, within those walls. _Safe, behind stone and swords. At least for the time being_. 

"To me!" he shouted, raising himself up in the saddle and trying to rally his scattered company, wishing he had a banner to raise. They drew about him, or at least tried to, those that lived; but there were so few, he thought bleakly. Many had been slain in the initial onslaught, and though he could see the foot soldiers coming to their aid, he feared it would be too little too late.

They fought on, but more orcs kept on flooding through the encircling mountains. _The Enemy must have been planning this since the last battle_ , thought Fingon, with hatred. _As his vengeance on my father, he means to break through our lines and crush us in our own mountains_.

He swung his sword with renewed ferocity at that thought. _That won't happen. Not while I'm king_. 

They were being pushed down the riverbank in the downstream direction all the while, further and further from Barad Eithel. _With more and more enemies between us and the defenders of the walls, and those they defend, it would be harder and harder to hold the valley_... The clouds were drawing in, purpling like a bruise, turning the Sirion's waters to iron grey, now stained with blood from the shore. Fingon looked up, in time to feel rain splash upon his upturned face. Suddenly Lalwen was at his side, breathing heavily, blood seeping from beneath her helm at her brow. 

"We're too few" she managed, blocking the blow of an orcish blade with her shield, before spinning around and hacking off the wielder's arm at the shoulder, sending it reeling away screaming and showering them both with hot, dark blood, "And they're cutting off our escape route, pushing us downriver. Even if Gonendil sends another company from the fortress…"

"He must not" said Fingon, breathing hard. "This was a trap; the Enemy means to draw us out, company by company, to drive us into the river or scatter us so we cannot stand together." He wiped mud or blood from his eyes, he could barely tell which. "Morgoth has enough force to carry on until all the defenders of the fortress are drawn out. They must stay inside, with the gates shut."

She nodded, and for a moment their eyes met. They both knew what that meant. They were both ready to die here if it came to it. "Very well. Then - "

But at that moment, her voice was drowned out by a great horn call, resounding in the mountains. Fingon looked up, staring around desperately. _Is that…?_

"The house of Hador!" someone called, jubilantly. "The loyal men of the house of Hador have come!'

Sure enough, there around the outthrust arm of the mountains, Fingon made out the standards of the Edain of Dor-lómin. He could not help but smile as he watched them appear from around the farther peak, spilling into the valley and cutting through the orcs as they came. 

"The enemy has numbers", shouted Fingon above the noise, drawing himself up in the saddle, "but we have the glorious union of the valiant Edain and the Eldar! Come, fight at my side! We will prevail!"

There was an answering roar from what was left of his own soldiery, and a far-off war horn suggested that his voice had reached even to Galdor and his host, far off on the other side of the valley. 

The battle raged on as the rain grew heavier, thunder rumbling in the north. 

\-------

The lampstones cast the corridor - more of a tunnel really, narrow and deep underground, sloping a little too steeply - in stark blue-white, the shadows of the people shuffling into the bowels of the mountain running along the wall like frightened sprites. 

Ereinion's hand was tightly closed in his mother's; though there were times these days when such childish gestures would have made him blush, now he was glad of her there at his side. 

Elenniel was moving down the column, overseeing the movement of those few left at Barad Eithel who could not fight to the great vaults carved into the rock below the Ered Wethrin. Ereinion scrutinised her face as she passed them. It was hard as stone, and tense, and though it was difficult to tell in the shadows, she seemed paler than usual, as though the colour had been drawn from her. Lalwen was out there, and that was why, Ereinion knew. When it became clear that the incursion into the valley and the attempted crossing of the river had been but a trap, to lead out the king and his elite fighters, she had led out as much of the force of Barad Eithel as could be spared, if an attempt was made to take the fortress. Meanwhile, Elenniel was in charge of the evacuation to the vaults. 

Ereinion knew he was not supposed to know those details, though; he had listened in to his mother and Elenniel talking. He supposed they did not want to frighten him and the other children.

Ereinion did not feel frightened though. At least, he thought, not for himself. Suddenly he found himself wishing to hold his spear in his hands, to stand out on that field as he had last seen it in the sunlight from the wallwalk with Fingon - and how long ago it seemed, days and days, except that it had only been this morning - keeping the enemy back, away from the bright jewel-like green that still clung to the bank of the river on their side, before the sprawling grey dust of Anfauglith began. _Keep something unstained at least_ , Ereinion thought, thinking of the shining brightness in Fingon's eyes as he looked out over the river, the frontier between verdant river-grass and sparkling water, clean air and the sharp scent of snow in the mountains, and beyond, the great expanse of ash that was a testament to the Enemy's power of destruction. 

Ereinion wondered what Fingon was doing now. He supposed Fingon was fighting, for if they were not back yet, they must be fighting. _Fingon was strong though; his archers and the royal guard and all the valiant people of Barad Eithel would protect him, help their king to victory._

_Wouldn't they?_

"We're here, sweet" said Melinduilas, giving his hand a squeeze. "This is where we're to sleep for tonight."

He had been so lost in thought that he had barely noticed the tunnel drawing them down into a vast underground vault, rimmed with columns. Ereinion suddenly had the sense that it was not made by any hand of the Eldar, but carved out by Ulmo's waters themselves, etching out slow paths through Aulë's rock. But no, he could see the carven ceiling, very far above and faint in the dim light of the lampstones and the great iron braziers that were being lit as he watched, between the columns. That reminded him how cold it was down here, cold and damp, and Ereinion shivered. 

"Come on" said Melinduilas, drawing him over to where a woman was handing out lampstones and candles. She gestured to a brazier. "There's no need to freeze." She fussed for a while, tucking his cloak closer around him, and Ereinion let her, once more glad of the very touch of his mother's hands, the sound of her voice.

"It's like Nargothrond" he said, when they had leaned back against a column, Melinduilas wrapping her cloak around him as well as his own. 

She nodded. "Yes, I suppose it is, a little." They were silent for a moment, tension thickening the air as people hurried past them. "What do you think your father and Finduilas are doing right now?" asked Melinduilas after a while, a strange, tight smile on her face.

 _She is trying to take my mind off this_ , Ereinion realised. "Ummm…" he tried to think, but he could not help but realise he had thought little of his old home in Nargothrond recently. "Father will be at a council meeting, perhaps" he said. "Finduilas will be with Gwindor, maybe, or she might be on the balcony throwing stones into the Narog, trying to count how long it takes them to fall."

It had been something they had done together, before. 

Melinduilas smiled, truly this time. _Was it a trick of the firelight, or had Ereinion seen her eyes glimmering with tears?_  

"Yes," she said. "That might well be the case. They will miss us, as we miss them." 

Ereinion nodded, slowly. 

"When this is over" she said, letting him lean against her side, stroking his hair, "we will return to them."

Ereinion nodded; despite himself, he was beginning to feel almost sleepy. "Yes, I suppose we will."

 _It will be over soon, this war_ , Ereinion thought as his mind began to drift into slumber, even as the shadows leapt and gyrated in the brazier light against the high stone walls. _Fingon would see to it. Fingon would see the lands restored. He would end this, if anyone could._

His head nodded onto his chest as his mother's arms and her cloak enveloped him, and the echoes and firelight on the high walls danced through his dreams as he slept.

\-------

Fingon jumped from the saddle, sliding to his knees on the muddy riverbank beside the Lord of the House of Hador, who was cradled in his sons' arms. He couldn't see a face, but Húrin and Huor had their backs to him as they held their father, and there was blood pooling on the churned up grass by the bank of the Sirion. 

"Is he…" began Fingon, before catching sight of Galdor's face, which was streaked with red, one eye a bloody, empty ruin, pierced by an arrow which had been drawn out. He was still, too still and pale, and Fingon didn't even need to see his sons' faces to know that the Lord of Dor-lómin was dead. Fingon dropped his head respectfully as Huor and Húrin made to bow to their king. "He died valiantly and with honour, defending Hithlum against the forces of Morgoth" Fingon told them. "Without the intervention of your force, they would likely have broken through, into the keep." He looked up at Húrin, meeting his eyes. "Hail to the Lord of Dor-lómin."

Húrin seemed to catch his breath for a moment, and Fingon felt a stab of pity. Húrin was so young, he thought, even in the years of the Edain. And Fingon himself knew what it was like to lose a father, to have to step up to his position. He knew that far too well. But then, even as he watched, Húrin drew himself up a little taller, there were tears in his eyes, but he let them flow down his face freely, painting clean streaks in the dirt and blood of battle on his skin. Húrin nodded once. "I will do all I can to honour his memory, and to lead my house to glory. I will uphold the honour of the High King and of the realm of the Noldor."

Fingon nodded with approval. "And I shall hold you to it." Others began to reach them, picking their way amongst the strew bodies by the riverbank. Cries of shock and grief rang around them as they saw that the Lord of the House of Hador was dead. Yet they knelt in silence for a while, the king and his two lords. "Come" said Fingon after a time, as Galdor was lifted onto a bier that had been hastily brought from the keep. He looked to Huor, noticing the blood blooming at his shoulder, where breastplate met pauldron. "You are wounded; let the healers in the citadel tend you before you return to Dor-lómin."

Huor bowed his head. "I thank you, my king."

Fingon watched in silence as they bore Galdor's body away, and the way that Húrin and Huor's eyes never left that motionless face. Then he turned his eyes back to the sight of the battle, by the riverside. The most recent wave of enemies was all dead, corpses strewn upon the bank, but there were precious few left to defend the fortress, Fingon saw, even as he watched the injured being carried hastily back to Barad Eithel. And even as they stood there, there came a cry. 

"Another wave, my king! More enemies are coming!"

Fingon saw that the caller was right, and though a crushing weariness threatened to seize him, he grasped his sword once more, holding it up in readiness for a fight, even as Húrin drew his own once more. 

"Their numbers are enough to walk across the raging waters on a hill of their own drowned" said Húrin, his voice weary, flat and uninflected. 

Fingon frowned. "Will you stand with at my side?"

Determination kindled in the young lord's eyes. "Always, my king."

The next wave of the onslaught hit, and then the next. It was only a little after this, as evening began to fall, that Fingon's horse was slain under him, an arrow in her throat sending out a great gout of blood and causing her to buck and shriek, sending him sprawling into the mud. He had to roll away as an orc with a great battle axe made to smite him, clawing mud from his eyes with his free hand even as he struggled to drag his leg out from underneath his dying horse. 

Anger kindled in him as he came back up to see his loyal steed in her death throes, and he wished that he could give her the gift of final mercy. But he was fighting for his own life now, and had to dive to one side to avoid another burly uruk swinging a mace at him. He bared his teeth, crying out in defiance as he stabbed upward with his sword, the huge creature collapsing on top of him. Hastily, he rolled its body off lest it crush him, before feeling a stab of pain in his ankle. He grimaced, hoping that it was only bruised rather that sprained or broken in his fall, for if it gave way beneath him he was almost certainly doomed. He croaked out a fey laugh at that. _We're all doomed though, when it comes to it. The only question was how long the doom can be held at bay._

He gritted his teeth, seizing a spear from a dead guard and gripping it in his right hand, transferring his sword to his left. He felt all too vulnerable on foot on the ground, amongst all these mounted warriors. Even his own people could kill him now, if they did not see him below their horses' hooves, and many of the enemy were still mounted on wargs...

"King Fingon"shouted Huor, across the field. "We can't hold them much longer. They're going to break through to the keep!"

 _Was there enough strength of arms left within Barad Eithel to hold them at bay, if they tried to storm the keep?_ Fingon's heart sank as remembered the parties of scouts he had sent out across the plains of Hithlum, just the previous week. The hill forts that lined the peaks of the Ered Wethrin contained a sizeable force, too, but they were spread out across the mountains, and with night drawing in who could say how long it would take them to come to the aid of Barad Eithel… _and who could say if the high king's company could last even that long_ … 

Fingon cursed himself, wishing he had anticipated a sudden attack on this scale before now. _Did we learn nothing in the Dagor Bragollach?_ _The valour of the Noldor is great, but the Enemy always has more strength, more orcs, they are never-ending_ …

It was night now, and still they fought on, and still enemy kept on coming through the gaps in the hills. Fingon found himself losing track of time, his muscles aching as they came on in waves, the attack barely letting up between, even as the defenders were driven back almost to the very rock into which Barad Eithel was set. _We truly cannot hold on much longer_ , Fingon knew. He blinked up at the sky. The rain had not let up, but he could see the cold grey light of dawn in the east, across the Anfauglith. There were more orcs coming across the desolate, rain-sodden plains, Fingon saw with desolation. 

He stared into the grey dawn. They could not break through, they must not. Barad Eithel was full of his people, the innocents he ruled over and whom he had to protect. He thought of Ereinion then, his small face looking up into his own with wide, trusting blue eyes. The child laughing in delight at something Fingon had shown him. 

_He's not my own child, but he may as well be._

_They're all my children really_ , he thought. _All my people, every single one_. 

He pulled his lips back into a snarl and made to cry out above the clamour, to rally the survivors. But then a voice broke through into his mind, once more.

"King Fingon! Look! On the river!"

Fingon whipped around, seeing something large and hulking in the dim light, upon the waters of the Sirion. 

_A ship?_

Another, following… and then yet another, looming out of the gloom of early morning. 

Anger lit in him once again then. _The dark one cannot use my river, the fair Sirion which gives us life, and use it against us. I will not let him_. 

Then he saw something bright, unfolding from the mast of the first ship; a banner, pale blue and white, sewn with the emblem of a ship that seemed to sail upon the murky air, floating alongside its wood and sailcloth brethren. 

"Círdan!" said Fingon jubilantly, speaking out loud in his elation. His old ally had a great force at the Havens, and if they were all sailing to the aid of Barad Eithel, they could win this easily, he judged, as he watched ship after ship appearing where the river bent around the mountains. As he watched, warriors began to leap over the sides of the ships onto the river bank, a swarm of white and silver amidst the black-armoured orcs, bright swords glimmering in the grey light of dawn, Telerin bows singing. He whirled around, fighting off any enemy that tried to assail him with renewed vigour; they would survive this, he knew now. 

After that the end came quickly, and soon Círdan was before him, cleaning his sword and smiling down at the king of the Noldor.

Fingon was sitting in the healer's tent which had been hastily erected by the riverside. He had not even noticed he had been wounded in the fighting, not until he felt the blood sluicing down his forearm from the slice of a dagger, small but deep, where his armour plates joined. It had cut right through his mail, he had realised with some surprise, the pain beginning to come now as the desperation of battle wore off. 

Fingon winced as the healer stitched the wound, even as he nodded to Círdan. "Thank you, my lord" said Fingon, bowing as best he could without causing himself excessive pain. "Without your arrival, that could have been…"

"Disastrous?" said Círdan.

Fingon grimaced. "Perhaps, yes. I am sorry for those you have lost. The fault was…" he drew in a breath as the needle tugged at his skin. "The fault was mine. I should have anticipated this… the trick the enemy would use..."

Círdan dismissed this with a wave of his hand. "We were ever allies, king Fingon. And there may well come a day when you must come to our aid."

"Surely the Falas is safer than anywhere?"

Círdan smiled grimly, and a little sadly. "For now."

Later, when Fingon's wound was bandaged in clean linen, they stood by the riverbank, watching the people moving through the bodies that lined the river bank, bearing the fallen of their side back to Barad Eithel with honour, throwing the corpses of the orcs into a great heap for burning. It was a grim sight. Fingon shook his head sadly. "Galdor is dead" he told Círdan. "As well as many good men of Dor-lómin."

"Has Húrin taken up the rule of the house of Hador, then?"

Fingon nodded. "I think he will be a strong lord, and a good ally for what is to come."

Círdan gave him a long, appraising look. "You mean to go through with this plan of yours… of Maedhros', then?"

Fingon turned and met his eye, drawing himself up a little taller. Then he subsided, with a sigh. "It is far from realised yet" he said. "More of a dream, really, than a plan. But we mean to go through with it, yes." He smiled. "Despite today, I believe the Enemy can be beaten. Or at least if we all fight together, all the peoples of Beleriand, and do not lose hope."

"Ah, all of the peoples of Beleriand fighting together" said Círdan, sounding a little sad. "Not to take your hope away from you, but I suspect, king, that that part may prove more difficult than you make it sound."

"I believe it can be done" said Fingon with conviction, as they turned and began the slow march back to the fortress, following the sombre train of litter-bearers carrying the dead. "I know it can."

Suddenly, Círdan smiled. "When you speak so, you truly do make me believe you" he said. 


	4. Chapter 4

Melinduilas gazed at the letter in her hands, staring at it as though to bore a hole in the paper, reading the words it held over and over as if they might have changed since the last time. 

If the letter from Orodreth had not come clutched in the hand of a dying marchwarden, skin and armour torn by horrifying claw and tooth marks, she might not have believed the words it held. 

 

_My dear Melinduilas,_

_It is with a heart heavy with fear of what is to come that I must tell you this. Finrod is dead, and I am king. The princess of Doriath has escaped, and broken Tol-in-Gaurhoth. How, we do not know, but wolves are everywhere in the woods; we do not know how many, or where, as the marchwardens keep disappearing before they can bring news. The sons of Fëanor are accursed. Do not trust them or any who are in league with them. I must tell you that I am closing the gates of Nargothrond. Finduilas is safe here, though she misses you both. It's best you keep Ereinion safe with you for now._

_All my love to you and our son._

_Be well,_

_Orodreth._

 

She looked up from the letter once more, trying to fix the meaning of the words in her mind as she stared out of the crack in the half-closed shutters and down into the courtyard. It was early morning, but there was a commotion by the main gate. She watched as Fingon and his company road back in, soaked with the blood of the wolves that had scrambled in a panicked frenzy upstream on the banks of the Sirion the previous day, pouring through the gap and towards Eithel Sirion. The warriors had been hunting all night. 

She remembered fleeing from those wolves herself, not so long ago, gripping Finduilas' hand too tight even as she held the squalling bundle of blankets in which a sleepy Ereinion was wrapped. Clinging to her children for her very life. Orodreth had stayed behind to try to defend the isle, and she had feared then that she would never see him again. He had returned though, saved by Finrod's people, riding out from Nargothrond. 

She tried to imagine Orodreth as king of Nargothrond, but found it hard to conceive of the place without Finrod at the helm. 

A tapping at the door interrupted her musings, and she turned immediately to see Ereinion standing there in his night clothes as he always had when he when he was younger and had woken from a nightmare, rubbing his eyes and yawning.

"Little one" she exclaimed, closing the shutter, stuffing the letter into her pocket and rushing over to pull him into her arms. "What are you doing up so early, hmm?"

He frowned, squirming in her arms until she released him. "I heard noises in the courtyard."

She sighed. Suddenly she _wanted_ to tell him everything, to have someone to speak to, to confide her fears to him. But she didn't; Ereinion was still too young, there was no reason to frighten him with the disturbing stories that had been flying around the fortress since the previous night. 

 _Selfish that I even considered it_ , Melinduilas thought. 

"Nothing to worry about" she said, stroking his hair. "We're safe here." She hadn't really been thinking; the words had simply slipped from her mouth and she instantly regretted them. 

But Ereinion only frowned. "I wasn't _scared_ " he said, taking her hand and dragging her over to the window sill. "I just wanted to see."

They both looked out of the window, where Fingon and his guard were milling about, cleaning their swords and talking animatedly, the rush of battle and triumph still wearing off it seemed. The pallid light of early dawn caught in the flashes of gold in Fingon's hair as he took off his helm and shook out his braids. Their horses were being taken to the stables, and Fingon was just starting to untie his leather bracers when a horn call rang out from the guard tower, startling Melinduilas. 

"What's that?" Ereinion asked, eagerness in his voice. He squeezed her hand, looking up at her. "Another battle?"

Melinduilas frowned down into the courtyard, and then peered out into the hazy valley, her breath smoking the cold glass. Far away, she could just see something moving up the Sirion's near bank, indistinct against the dull red glow of dawn in the east.

She was just about to reply when an answering horn call - far away but bright and clear - rang through the valley, and the call was taken up by the guards in the tower. 

"It's Lord Maedhros! The son of Fëanor and his party have arrived!"

"Open the gate!"

She smiled resignedly down at Ereinion. "No, don't worry, it's not another battle." But he did not answer, for he was already tugging at her hand, eager to meet the king's guest. 

 _Not another battle. That was something. Not this time, at least_. 

Yet still the words in Orodreth's letter ran through her mind, congealing into a heaviness of dread and foreboding within her. _The sons of Fëanor are accursed_. _Do not trust them or any who are in league with them._

She frowned, about to speak, and then changed her mind, letting Ereinion lead her to the door. She would wait, she decided, and watch. _After all_ , she thought, _Ereinion is safe here yet. That's the only thing that matters._

\-------

Maedhros sat at Fingon's side on the softly cushioned divan in Fingon's solar, before the wide window. The room commanded a breathtaking view of the whole valley, dropping dizzyingly away from the walls of Barad Eithel build into the mountainside, down to the river far below. Now the valley and the sheer mountain walls were picked out in the silver light of a huge full moon, the Sirion transformed into a ribbon of brilliance, ripples passing through the long grass on the valley floor like waves in the ocean. The wind blew tiny, scudding wisps of cloud across the face of the moon. He looked down at the earthworks by the bank, with interest and a growing frown. 

"That was started after the fall of Galdor, defending our walls" said Fingon, grimacing. "That… was a rather closely fought victory."

"And you think that's enough? Damn it all to the Void, Finno, you could have easily been killed" snapped Maedhros, staring down at the wide, grassless patch of riverbank that was still churned into mud, the solid wall of earth half-built. It had frozen over in the winter - to be continued when the ground would take a spade once more - and new grass had not yet grown to cover it, though it had been some months. 

Fingon turned and looked at his cousin, those familiar features, the ridged scars of Maedhros' face picked out starkly in moonlight, drawn of all colour. "What could I have done? There were too few within Barad Eithel at the time. We did not anticipate an attack on such a scale… that was a mistake." He felt his face grow hot. "But you… what right do you have to scold me like a child, hmm?"

Maedhros winced. "I'm not scolding you, Findekáno."

Fingon's shoulders slumped, and he sighed. "I know." He clenched his fists in his lap. "What was I to have done though? We are so thinly spread as it is, and if Círdan had not come…"

"You know what has to be done" said Maedhros.

Fingon nodded slowly. "If we are to strike at all, it must be soon. How goes the building of the eastern alliance?"

"It goes" said Maedhros, inclining his head. He grimaced. "I fear Tyelko and Curvo's… _behaviour_ in Nargothrond has cost us half the force we could have had."

"Surely not so much" said Fingon. "What of the men of Dor-lómin? The Easterlings? The Naugrim?"

"Khazad. They don't like to be called Naugrim."

Fingon smiled weakly. "See? You are better at diplomacy than you know. But what of all of them, hmm? All the alliances you've made?" He raised his hand from where it was lying just touching Maedhros' between them, letting the backs of his fingers brush Maedhros' face. "Join the might of Barad Eithel and Himring with that of all those loyal to us, and I believe we can do it. Finish this." He grew animated as Maedhros looked into his face, searchingly. "You will be free, Maitimo. Free of the Oath."

Maedhros turned away, clenching his left hand into a fist. "We have to succeed first. And I would have much rather have had all Beleriand on our side. Has Artaresto still not changed his mind? Will Nargothrond still abstain?"

Fingon scowled. "Ah yes, our stubborn princeling of a cousin, with kingly pretensions. Or one of them. His neck is too stiff; he will not change his mind."

"He is your vassal, Findekáno. If you command him to come to your aid, fight at your side, he must obey."

Fingon let out a bitter laugh. "Try telling Artaresto that."

Maedhros sighed, running his fingers through his the front of his hair as he did when he was frustrated; Fingon knew the gesture well by now. "I'm sorry the actions of my brothers brought this upon you" Maedhros said. "Upon us, really, and our people."

"It wasn't your fault."

"Still." Maedhros hesitated for a moment then. "Artaresto sent you his son and wife into your keeping, though. Before."

Fingon raised an eyebrow. "Yes, before. What of it?"

"So… you are not devoid of leverage over him."

"I will not hear of harming Ereinion or Melinduilas."

"I was not suggesting it. But the fact is that Artaresto's wife and son are under your protection, and so far you have kept them safe. He is already in your debt, and if that is not enough, you could keep them here for a time, should he call for their return."

Fingon stared at him for a moment, then sighed. "I will not pretend that the idea had not crossed my mind. But they are not hostages, Maitimo. It is not right. It is not what my father would do."

Maedhros nodded. "Fair enough." There was a short silence. "From what I hear you've been growing attached to the boy" said Maedhros after a while.

Fingon smiled, with genuine affection. "He is sweet and kind; it would be impossible not to. You can meet him tomorrow and see for yourself, if you like."

Maedhros nodded. "I know that you always wanted a child" he said after a while, raising his hand when Fingon started in surprise. "Just… remember that he is not yours, Fin. He is not your son and you are not his father."

Fingon laughed, rolling his eyes. "Lalwendë says the same."

"She's right, and it's not only for your sake. It will be easier for both of you, when… if…"

"Oh stop it with the _ifs_ " said Fingon, taking Maedhros' hand between his own. "Come. It's gotten to a ridiculous time of night as we have sat here discussing sorrowful things, which will seem better in the light of the morning anyway. It's time we went to bed, for we must be up early for the war council, or are you planning on having it here and now?"

Maedhros laughed ruefully. "I can think of things I'd rather do, I must admit." He stretched like a cat, allowing Fingon to draw him to his feet by the hand before closing the shutters over the wide window. "My dear Fin, I am sorry for eternally being the bringer of doom and gloom. I'll try to at least save it for when the Sun shines upon us."

"That's alright" murmured Fingon, clasping Maedhros' hand between his own once more, trying to bring some warmth to Maedhros' cold fingers. "I know it's just the way you always have been, and always will be."

\----------

Later, Ereinion would mark that first time that Maedhros son of Fëanor visited as the time that things began to change.

He had not, in fact, seen Maedhros that first day when he had sighted his party approaching at dawn. The king and the lord of Himring had been taking close private council all the previous day, it was said, and Ereinion had been disappointed. Now that it came to it though, he felt almost nervous at the prospect of meeting the great, much-discussed and rumoured eldest son of Fëanor, survivor of Angband, dispossessed and Oathbound. Yet still, he tugged anxiously at his collar to adjust it, folded and refolded his cuffs, and drew himself up taller, determined to make a good impression. 

There was a great banquet served for the diplomatic party from the east, which, though it was lead by Maedhros, also contained a group of lords and ladies who appeared Sindarin or half-Sindarin in face and manners, Ereinion thought. There were also a couple of dwarves, like the ones Ereinion had seen in Nargothrond, with their great beards elaborately braided and beaded, all booming laughter and strange accents. They had always frightened Ereinion a little back then when he was a child displaced from his home, but he was older now, and they held no fear for him, only curiosity. 

Then there was the son of Fëanor himself. Before the feast began, Fingon introduced the two of them formally, a look of tentative pride and slight apprehension upon his usually so self-assured face, though Ereinion did not know for whom it was intended. 

Maedhros was so _tall_ up close, Ereinion thought as they stood before one another, and with the son of Fëanor's scarred and twisted face and his missing right hand, his tumble of hair the colour of blood and flame, and the grim, disturbing stories Ereinion had heard of Maedhros' life, Ereinion could not help but feel a little afraid of him. 

Nevertheless, he stood with his back straight and his face set in determination, and tried to keep his eyes from being drawn inexorably to the leather-wrapped stump of Maedhros' right wrist as Fingon introduced them. 

"Cousin, this is Ereinion son of Orodreth, my ward. Ereinion, this is lord Maedhros of Himring, of whom you know, I am sure."

Ereinion was surprised by the change in Fingon's voice when he spoke with Maedhros - there was a subtle change in him when the two looked at each other, a current of understanding perhaps, as well as something else that Ereinion could not quite put a name to seeming to run between the two cousins, different as they were. Yet Fingon seemed a little warmer, a little brighter, a little more himself when Maedhros was near, and when Maedhros looked at Fingon, Ereinion saw him smile a smile that made his haggard, fractured face seem almost beautiful, as he had heard tell that it had once been. 

"Pleased to meet you, my lord" said Ereinion, bowing politely. 

"Likewise" said Maedhros, bowing in return. "And how do you like Barad Eithel, son of Orodreth?"

"I like it very much" said Ereinion. "Everyone here is very kind to me, especially Fi - um, the high king, I mean. And my mother likes it here too, which is important, and there are people who teach me all sorts of useful things."

"My cousin tells me you have been progressing well with your lessons?"

Ereinion blushed, feeling a slight sense of unreality as the semi-legendary Maedhros son of Fëanor asked him about such mundane things as his lessons. "Some of them" he said tentatively. "I'm not so good at crafts, but I write and sing well. And I've been enjoying weapons training with the guards. I'm good at fighting, I think."

Maedhros sighed, almost sadly. "That is for the best, probably. We may all need to have skill in such things, in the times to come."

"Stop it, cousin" said Fingon, swiping lightly at Maedhros' arm. "There's no need for gloomy talk like that this evening. Come, Ereinion. Perhaps you can fetch your harp and play Lord Maedhros the melody Mistress Calendis had you write last week? It was very beautiful."

Ereinion nodded quickly, hurrying off to go get his harp with some relief.

Later, in the feasting hall, Maedhros sat in the place at Fingon's right hand as Ereinion watched them from a little further down the high table.

The two were very careful to speak to everyone around them, he thought, Fingon especially making remarks to the table as a whole as often as not. But even he could see the current of _something_ that seemed to pass between Fingon and Maedhros, something that connected them, so Ereinion could almost imagine they could speak without words to one another. 

Ereinion would have been suspicious - the son of Fëanor still made him slightly nervous - if it were not for the effect it seemed to have on the king, every moment Maedhros was there, every shared glance, every laugh and subtle touch making Fingon's smile a little wider and less burdened with cares than he had been of late. 

It was almost as though they were planning something, two co-conspirators, full of hope despite the gathering darkness.

When he played his harp, Fingon's exhilaration seemed to fill the room, and the music - though Ereinion's playing was still clumsier than he or his teacher would have liked - seemed to soar to the ceiling, transmuted into something bright as sunlight on the sea, as the wind in the grassy plains of Hithlum on a summer's day. 

"You played beautifully tonight. You've improved so much since Nargothrond" Melinduilas told him later, as she led him off to bed, having made their excuses. "Perhaps the harp is your instrument, rather than your father's lute" she mused.  

He blinked up at his mother sleepily. "I do like it more."

She nodded, ruffling his hair. "Your father would still be so proud if he could see you, you know."

"Yes" said Ereinion, who was still thinking back to the feast and Fingon applauding, a brilliant smile on his face. "Yes, I hope so."


	5. Chapter 5

Maedhros' departure was, as always, a heavy burden for his heart to bear, yet this time at least Fingon did not have much time to dwell on his cousin's absence. He was travelling himself now, a purpose clear before him, the way he always preferred; that was something at least.

The road to Dor-lómin from Barad Eithel was a familiar one for Fingon. He had travelled it many times, there and back, when he had been lord of Dor-lómin and his father had been king. 

The mountains were much as he remembered; little change, he supposed, could ever come to the white peaks of the Ered Wethrin that marched on either side of the pass, no matter how far the darkness spread from the north. His party passed the broad grey shores of Lake Mithrim, all open sky and memories. Every time he passed here, he felt the wind whip mercilessly against his face and remembered flying over it, circling down over the lake's slate-grey waters with his most beloved cousin in his arms, _bleeding, dying_ … he shook his head to clear it of that memory. Soon he would see Maedhros again, he knew, but it was not yet time; there were plans to be made first, and this trip was part of that. 

They passed through the wide-flung arm of the mountains again, before the lands opened up about them into the rolling planes and heather of Dor-lómin. He inhaled the damp, earthy smell of the air, a smile starting on his lips. 

"Your highness" said Brithwen of the guard, riding up beside him as they came to a fork in the road. "We should arrive at the house of the Lord Húrin within the hour."

Fingon nodded. "Send a scout ahead, bearing my seal to let them know of our arrival."

She gave a curt bow in the saddle and turned to see to it. After a while she returned, riding at Fingon's side in comfortable silence. Silence, he found, was always a comfortable option around Brithwen; she spoke little, but even her presence with her stoney face and her ever-watchful eyes, her steadfastness in the face of everything was reassuring without the need for words. She reminded him a little of his brother Turgon in that, though as he had once been long ago, Fingon thought with a pang of sorrow. He found he could barely imagine what the slow march of the years had shaped his brother into now; Fingon did not even know if Turgon still lived, though he could not imagine him dying. _He was always the most resilient amongst us four_ , reflected Fingon with a twist of his lip, _though no one would have thought it from the first look_. 

He frowned, squinting out at the horizon to put the thought of his brother from his mind, for now at least. 

Fingon had brought with him only a small escort this time, as few as may be seen as acceptable for the guard of a king on a diplomatic mission. There were his house guard, as well as picked riders from his own company of horse archers, and then there was Brithwen with several of the gate guards. Altogether they made up a party of twenty three, which Fingon supposed was small enough, though he still wished they could travel with more speed. He could feel urgency tugging at him most of the time these days, leaving him restless and troubled even in these fair lands. The Enemy was on the move, Fingon knew, and though they were drawing up plans to bring Morgoth's dark reign to an end at last for good and all, it may still come too late…

"My king, I think you had better look at that" said Brithwen quietly, flicking her eyes upwards without moving her head. 

Fingon frowned, taking care not to let the motion be seen, then, copying her caution, he let his eyes travel upwards into the sky, suspecting already what he might see. Sure enough, there it was, a black dot high above, moving with their party. 

"How long?" he murmured, so that only Brithwen could hear. 

"I don't know. Half an hour, perhaps longer. I wanted to be sure before I troubled you with it."

He nodded. "Thank you Brithwen. You have sharp eyes."

Without reigning up or changing his horse's pace, he cautiously reached to pull out his bow, taking an arrow from his quiver slowly and carefully. He nocked his arrow, keeping the bow down low at his side, hidden from the black speck high above. Then, quickly and suddenly, he drew, aimed and fired, the arrow flying straight up into the cloudy sky. 

There was a screeching cry, and then the black dot was falling, tumbling and spinning to land on the road before them. Fingon called the party to a halt and dismounted, going to it. 

A dead raven lay in the road, his black and yellow fletched arrow embedded in its breast. Fingon held the bird in his hands, blood staining his leather riding gloves as its glazed inky eyes stared up at him lifelessly. He inspected its legs, and grimaced as he saw a crude iron band encircling one, graven with jagged markings in some cruel tongue. 

"A spy?" asked Brithwen, dismounting and coming to kneel beside him. 

Fingon modded grimly, scanning the grey, misty sky. "There could be others, and they will be more cautious now. We should keep moving."

 _So_ , he thought, _the days grow darker apace. If we are to make an end to this, it must be soon_.

\--------

Húrin and Huor welcomed him first with the formal procedure - kneeling, and kissing his ring of state - and then, once the crisp formality of the meeting of a king and his vassals had given way to the meeting between friends, with smiles and companionable hugs, before he leaned forward to kiss Morwen and Rían on both cheeks.

"Is all well with the family?" asked Fingon, as Húrin led him into the longhall, where a fire was already burning in the great hearth. "Húrin, how are your little ones? Will I get to see them this time?"

Húrin's face darkened. "Alas, Túrin and Urwen are both in bed with some chill or other." He smiled a little, through the worry on his face as he saw Fingon's outright alarmed expression. He stilled Fingon's protest with a raised hand. "Ah, my valiant king, I think you're too easily frightened on our behalf, if I may say so. It should pass soon enough, for they are both strong and hale children." 

"We may be mortal but we are not as frail as all that; childhood illnesses are quite common amongst our folk" said Rían. "They usually pass quickly. Still, I too think it best to let Túrin and little Lalaith sleep."

Fingon nodded in thanks as Huor passed him a cup of mead. "I did have a gift for your boy Túrin, as the heir of the house of Hador" said Fingon. "But perhaps…" he tried to calculate quickly how old the child would be now. "Perhaps he's too young for it yet." He took out a small, finely made dagger in a sheath and passed it to Húrin with a smile. "Perhaps his father can keep it for a few years, hmm?"

Húrin's eyes widened, clearly impressed as he unsheathed the knife. "A rich gift" he said. "You have our gratitude as always."

Fingon waved a hand. "It's the least I can do." His face darkened, as they had reached the point in the conversation when they were coming close to speaking of what was to come. "After all, there will be tribulations to come for all our peoples, and I fear that I have not been quite the liege-lord your people need in these times."

"You have done all you can" said Huor. "We are proud to fight for you. But come; we all know why you're here. Speak of the battle plans." His eyes lit. "How goes the building of the great alliance?"

Fingon sighed, clenching a fist. "Mixed, to tell you the truth. My cousin the Lord Maedhros has been making progress in the East, making alliances with the Easterlings and the Khazad, who seem to be loyal as far as I can see. But of our own people…" he let out a bitter laugh, "…well, let us say that the Eldar are more divided than you might think. Thingol refuses to fight with us; that much I might have expected. But even my own cousin Orodreth refuses to fight at my side, due to a grievance with the sons of Fëanor, and my own _brother_ is nowhere to be found. He disappeared into the mountains some few centuries ago… but I'm sure you have heard." He sighed. "Not to mention those who have died… too many were slain in the Bragollach, and after…" he clasped his hands before him on the table. "But come, what am I doing complaining? You have had worse trials here." He looked between the brothers. "I want you to know that your father died with honour. He died defending Eithel Sirion, to his last breath. My people were trapped by the ambush at the riverbank at the time… if he had not been there to hold the fortress, I dread to think what may have happened."

Húrin nodded. "It's how he would have wanted to leave this world, I am certain."

"And now the dragon helm belongs to Húrin" said Morwen. "But perhaps you, my lord, can convince this stubborn man to actually wear it when he goes to war!"

"I do not like to fight an enemy that cannot see my face, the light in my eyes as I kill them" explained Húrin. "But of course, Morwen fears for me."

"I can see both sides" said Fingon, with a slight, bitter smile. "But as one who gave up the dragon helm myself and never held any regrets, I cannot say that I am qualified to advise upon the matter."

They all laughed at that, the tension and sense of fear that clung to the air clearing a little, and they spoke after of better things.  

\--------

He left in the cold light of early morning, three days later, mind still churning with the battle plans that had been discussed at the council the day before. It was cold today, and Húrin and Morwen were dressed in thick woollen cloaks, though they barely ventured beyond the door of the great longhall. Fingon himself was dressed in his armour, and swathed in a thick fur-trimmed riding cloak, his face muffled in a woollen scarf and a fur cap to keep the biting north wind off. 

Húrin came to him as he mounted up. "Safe travels, my king."

"Thank you. I am grateful for your hospitality, and give my regards to your children, when they are well enough to receive them."

Húrin nodded his assent, before looking up at Fingon in the saddle. "May the light shine upon thy path" he said formally, bowing with his hands clasped before him, left fist in right palm. For a moment Fingon stared at him, unable to place exactly why the gesture seemed so familiar, before he shook his head, putting it from his mind. 

"And upon thine" he said in answer, inclining his head as best he could, before flicking the reins and signalling to his party to follow. 

It was only some miles out of Dor-lómin, when they were out on the rolling plains that memory came, suddenly and all at one. 

"Turukáno" he breathed, in disbelief.

"Pardon, my king?" asked Brithwen, who was riding at his side.

"Nothing" said Fingon hastily. His mind was spinning. That greeting… an antiquated thing really, an obsolete tradition from the dark years. Fingon remembered distinctly that his brother had read it in some old book in the palace library, and started using it immediately, much to the family's bemusement. It had been translated into Sindarin, and the hand gesture was not quite correct, but still…

Fingon turned this over in his mind for a long while as he rode. He had heard, of course, of the disappearance of the sons of Galdor in the wilderness for a year in their youth, of course he had. Everyone had. _But could it be…?_  

For a moment the wild notion to turn back seized him, to ride across the plains and ask Húrin and Huor outright for news of his wayward brother, gripping Fingon to the point that he even turned around in the saddle, gazing back over the heather crested hills of Hithlum under the lowering sky, heavy with snow-clouds. 

He turned his face forwards once more with a sigh. There would be little point, he knew, for even if he was correct in his wild speculations the sons of Galdor likely would not or could not tell him much. Fingon cursed his brother and his damned secrecy once more, feeling, as he always did, a frustrating pang of loss in his heart even as he did so. 

Whatever happened, he thought, after the battle was won they could talk more openly. Perhaps then there would be no more need for secrecy between kin and friends, and they could all speak without fear. 

Perhaps one day, he would even see his brother again.

He did not even know if he wanted that. Either way, it was a fool's hope, he knew. 

But were not all his hopes just so?

\-------

Fingon watched Ereinion training with the guard and the other children from a little way off. They were fighting with spears today, which he knew Ereinion loved and excelled at; but he had not quite realised the extent of the progress the boy had made. Ereinion was quick and lithe despite his rather bulky practice armour, and he certainly had the knack of fighting with a spear, Fingon thought. He balanced it just perfectly, using it as a staff, an extra limb almost, to shift his weight, to slip out of the way of the blows of his enemy - the daughter of one of Fingon's lords, similarly dressed in cumbersome practice armour - before spinning around and getting his spear point past the haft of hers, landing a clanging blow to her breastplate with the blunted point. 

As she picked herself up, Ereinion turned to look away from the practice ring, catching sight of Fingon. The boy was smiling blindingly in youthful pride, and Fingon could not help but smile back, finding himself equally proud. Fingon gave a cheerful wave, even as Ereinion turned back to his partner. They both bowed to each other, and parted. 

Afterwards Ereinion, hot and sweaty but grinning triumphantly, bounded over to where Fingon was sitting. "Did you see that?" he said, half bouncing on the balls of his feet. "I've never beaten Faelathriel before, not at _anything_! I know she's best with a warhammer, or something heavy anyway, so it was all stacked in my favour really, but still..."

"A warrior must have at least basic skills with any weapon that comes to hand, in case you are caught without your weapon of choice" said Fingon. "But perhaps you were indeed born to be a spearman, Ereinion." He thought back, a small smile coming to his face as he reminisced. "When I was about your age, I began my more serious training with the bow in particular." His face fell a little. _If only I had known back then that I would be fighting in a great war, that my targets wouldn't always be straw bushels with paper circles pinned to them, but enemies who would kill me if I did not kill them first._

_Or not always enemies. A cliff face, trying to aim high above in the dull haze of filth that filled the air, the world blurred by tears…_

_And before, blood on the sea foam. Blood of kin, and the slow, creeping realisation of what I had truly done and how I could never, never go back…_

Ereinion nodded, gleefully. "It is, I know it is. I'm going to be strong and valiant and fight for what's right, just like you."

Fingon balked slightly, drawing himself back to the present. "Perhaps… not _exactly_ like me would be best."

Ereinion frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I will tell you when you're older" said Fingon heavily, his heart growing heavier by the moment as he thought about how he had always hated that phrase, as a child. 

Ereinion's brow furrowed even deeper, though he held back the question that seemed to be on his lips. 

"Come" said Fingon hastily. "It's cold out here today. We should get you inside."

Ereinion brightened immediately. "Will you let me sit in on your council again?"

Fingon thought about this, running over in his head the things he had planned to discuss with the council. "Yes" he said, on an impulse. "If you like. It's good practice."

"Practice? For what?"

"Once again" said Fingon apologetically, "I'll have to resort to, ' _I'll tell you when you're older_ '. But you'll find out, by and by."

\-------

 _Dear Círdan_ , wrote Fingon. Then he stopped, letting his pen hover in midair, poised above the paper as he started unseeingly out of the window. Then he frowned, and carried on. 

_Let me start by thanking you once more for your promise to march with my kin and I as we move to end this cruel war. The united peoples of Beleriand are stronger for it. I know that our alliance was forged between you and my father, and that, knowing my history and that of my cousins, you must certainly have had cause to feel conflicted fighting at my side. But let me give you my word once more that though the fight may be hard, the fruits of victory and freedom will be sweeter in the end. Ending this war will be worth it._

_I know that we will meet again before the battle, and I know that the final points of strategy are still to be decided upon. But I write mostly, I confess, because I have a specific favour to ask of you. Barad Eithel and the surrounding lands of Hithlum are populated by civilians; farmers, artisans, simple folk and their families. The lands grow dangerous for such people in these times, and even for those now safe in Barad Eithel, I fear what will happen to them if something should go wrong with the plan. This is difficult to write, for I must hope that all will go to plan, but I am in need of a contingency._

_May I perhaps evacuate them to your protection in the Havens, at least until this is all over? Given Morgoth's hatred of the sea, I think that if disaster were to befall, it would be the safest place to bestow my people. I say it so, for if that were to happen, I should not be with them myself._

_I hope and expect that all will go to plan, and that my people can return to their homes and livelihoods in joy after the war is won. But still, I would appreciate your help with this._

_Blessings upon you my old friend,_

_High King Fingon Nolofinwion._

_P.S. There is one among them - a child, named Ereinion - whom I have grown to hold dear, almost as close as a son of my own. I have made the decision to appoint him as my heir when he comes of age, though I have not told him so yet. You will find a letter detailing this inclosed, sealed and signed. Please keep Ereinion safe and well provided for in particular, and I leave it to you to tell him of this at your discretion, should the need arise._

With a sigh, Fingon sealed the papers with a blob of blue wax, pressing his signet ring into it decisively.

Though the letter was light in his hand, mere ink and paper, it weighed heavy in his heart. 

\---------

Lalwen placed a finger under Elenniel's chin, lifting her head so that their eyes met, searching her face. "You're not angry at me?"

Elenniel turned her head half away with a sigh. "I wish… I wish it could have been different, that's all. I wish I could stay by your side, fight with you, protect you."

Lalwen tentatively kissed the top of Elenniel's silver head. "I know. But you're not a warrior; I am. You are needed to lead the people, since Fingon and I must stay and fight this war."

Elenniel nodded, her face blank.

"It'll only be for a little while" said Lalwen. "And when we meet again we will be triumphant. Morgoth will have fallen, and these lands will be free."

Elenniel finally looked up at her, a little sharply. "You don't know that for certain."

Lalwen shrugged. "No. But I believe it."

"Then let me fight with you."

"El, your hands were not made for fighting. They were made for writing, for music, for love and creation. Keep the blood off them."

"Don't patronise me."

"I'm not!" 

"You are." She glared, folding her arms. "Let me fight at your side."

"No."

"Why not?"

Lalwen hesitated. 

"See!" said Elenniel. "You doubt, even now. If you're going into danger, at least give me enough credit to be honest about your fears."

"No, it's not like that..."

"Then what is it like?"

" _Don't_ " said Lalwen, turning away from her. 

"Lalwen - "

"I think it _is_ possible" burst out Lalwen. "Is _has_ to be. But in every battle, there are losses on both sides. Win or lose, some of our people will die. It is just the way things are." She turned back to Elenniel, slowly. "And I don't trust my own ability to keep you safe enough to let you stay by my side."

Elenniel nodded slowly, taking Lalwen's outstretched hand. She sighed. " _I_ trust you with my life, even if you won't trust yourself. But you're right, of course. I didn't truly mean to suggest I should fight at your side." She sighed. "I suppose… I worry about you. I want to be beside you, but rationally I know I'd only be useless. I'd slow you down."

"Hey, El, you can still wield a sword." Lalwen smiled wanly. "Remember what I taught you? You can at least defend yourself. Besides, you were better than you think."

Elenniel frowned. "I wasn't good enough though."

"You do both yourself and your teacher a disservice with that opinion" said Lalwen, half smiling. "But no, I would not have you fight. Your strength is lifting up the hearts of others, to lead and to be loved by your people. At heart, I'm just a soldier, though I may be a captain, a general, though I may command armies. But I'm a follower." She squeezed Elenniel's hand. "You'll be much better at leading the people across these wild lands, to safety by the sea."

Elenniel laughed quitely. "That didn't make much sense."

"Oh, hush. You know my point is that you will be able to do this. I know it."

"I will" said Elenniel heavily, as though trying to reassure herself. "I will."

Lalwen took her swiftly in her arms, their hair mingling together about their shoulders as Elenniel pressed her face into the warm woollen fabric at the shoulder of Lalwen's tunic. "I'll miss you" she mumbled. 

"And I you." 

She drew back and Elenniel took the chance to kiss her very softly at the corner of her mouth, before drawing her closer, their mouths meeting hungrily, both savouring these last moments together before the day came. 

Outside, a bell began to ring. 

They drew apart, and Lalwen sighed, touching Elenniel's cheek very gently, before picking up Elenniel's little-used sword belt from the corner, helping her to put it on. Then she got the fur-lined travelling cloak from the rack by the door, throwing it about Elenniel's shoulders and smoothing it down with a flourish. 

"You don't have to do all this for me, you know" said Elenniel, shouldering her pack.

"But I want to" said Lalwen.  

\---------

Ereinion stood at his mother's side, dressed in a heavy blue woollen travelling cloak. The wind bit at his cheeks, stinging his eyes as he watched the carriages and carts, horses tossing their heads nervously, people hurrying in every direction as they loaded bundles and boxes they would carry with them to the Havens. Elenniel was overseeing the operation, her normally smiling face somewhat more closed and stoney than usual, her words clipped and short as she instructed the guards and the drivers about the formation planned for the column. 

He knew that Fingon was taking no chances; there were too many who could not fight leaving the city, many children amongst them, clinging to their parents in fear, or with faces half-composed, half struggling to hold back tears. The adults were solemn too, the everyday citizens of Barad Eithel and the surrounding lands seeming drawn of the bright colours they had worn, the laughter and the song that had seemed so ubiquitous when he had arrived here that first morning all stolen away. 

But there _was_ still hope, he knew. Fingon had said so, had told him of the plans for the great battle, light and bravery in his blue eyes, and Ereinion believed him. 

Fear was rife here though, _and fear is the death of hope_ … he had read that in a book somewhere once he thought, or perhaps it was something Fingon had told him. 

 _I must be brave for them_ , he thought. _If I do not fear, if I believe in Fingon and I keep trusting that the war can be won, then maybe mother will believe too, and maybe then Elenniel will, and then others will too. And so hope will spread amongst the people_. 

 _My people_ , Ereinion thought suddenly, without quite understanding where the idea came from. _They are my people, and I must help them to believe, must help them through to the new dawn that will follow this darkness, in whatever small way I can_.

He blinked a little as a young boy carrying a heavy wooden crate knocked into his arm, barely catching his balance as his mother grabbed his hand quickly, steadying him. His eyes stung in the cold wind, and he squeezed them shut for a long moment, before opening them wide, gazing up into the grey-white sky.

It was not only the wind making Ereinion's eyes prickle; he had cried that morning, in the grey light before dawn, when no one was there to see or hear him. He was grown now, he knew, and should not cry like a child. 

Yet he was being _treated_ like a child, he thought resentfully; Fingon was sending him away to the Havens, even as he had been sent here for his own safety, not so many years ago. _How many more times will I be sent away?_ he thought bitterly. _When this war is won, then will I be able to find a place to call home, to see my family again, all in one place?_

_Will I ever be allowed to fight to protect them?_

His mother squeezed his gloved hand, bringing him back to the present. "It's nearly time" she said. She must have seen something in his face, for she was looking down at him in concern. Then she looked back up, to see Fingon approaching, his face solemn. Ereinion looked up at her, silently asking permission, and she nodded, giving him a little push. "Go to him."

Fingon was dressed plainly, in a dark cloak buttoned up to the neck. He carried a tall spear, its head wrapped and bound securely in cloths. He almost looked ready for a journey, and for a moment Ereinion entertained the wild thought that Fingon would be coming with them to the Havens.

"As you go west, I shall be going east. I must leave for Himring this afternoon" said Fingon, dashing Ereinion's hopes. "Plans are still to be made. But I wanted to see you before you went on your way."

Ereinion nodded stiffly, already knowing how keenly he would miss Fingon. "I understand."

"Also" said Fingon, "I have a gift for you."

"A gift?"

Fingon nodded. "An additional name, if you will accept it."

Ereinion frowned. "A name?"

"Yes, a name to add to the ones you bear already." His voice took on the slightly sonorous tone that Ereinion had heard him use for royal formalities, rituals and blessings. "Ereinion Rodnor, son of Orodreth, I name thee _Finellach_ , the bright new flame of hope of the house of Finwë. May you carry the blessings of the high king of the Noldor with you."

 _Finellach_. Ereinion said the name to himself, his heart lifting despite his confusion. "I thank you, my king" he said, pride swelling in his chest. "I promise I will bring honour to my new name." On impulse, he knelt and kissed Fingon's ring of state formally, as he had seen the lords and ladies of the court do. Fingon smiled warmly, motioning for him to rise. They held each other's gaze for a long moment, before the formality between them suddenly dissipated and Fingon laughed and ruffled his hair. "I am confident of it." He released Ereinion and gazed off across the valley. "When the time comes that you will have use for it" said Fingon, his voice strangely distant, "you will know."

"Have use for it?" said Ereinion, frowning once more. "What do you mean by - "

"If it happens that you need it" said Fingon gently, "Círdan will tell you everything. Let him guide you in this and in all else, for I trust him completely."

Ereinion nodded. He was about to ask another question, when Fingon let out an exclamation. "Oh! Of course, I nearly forgot." He smiled indulgently. "I have another gift for you."

"Another gift?"

The corner of Fingon's mouth quirked into an indulgent smile. "As honourable and useful as it may prove to be, a name is not the sort of gift I would have treasured most, when I was your age."

Ereinion felt himself blush. "I do - "

Fingon laughed, lifting the spear at his side, untying the cloth wrapping from the head with a flourish. "Here" he said. "This is for you."

Ereinion gasped; he had assumed the spear was Fingon's own. Yet Fingon gave the weapon into his hands and he held it almost gingerly, testing its weight and balance. He did not know that much about the forging of weapons, but he knew enough to see that this one was the very best. The head glimmered in the pale light, sharp as a spindle of ice at the end, elegantly curved, more of a blade than a true spear head. Where it joined to the haft, it was worked with delicate lines of minute blue and white jewels, glimmering like ripples on water. He turned it to see the word inscribed there in flowing script. "Aeglos" he read, looking up at Fingon. "That's its name?"

Fingon nodded. "Yes, it is. I had it made based on the blade of my own father's sword, Ringil, which was lost." He frowned for a moment, then looked down at Ereinion seriously. "Aeglos is not a child's toy, Ereinion. As things stand, it is too long for you, but you will grow into it. Keep practicing hard, even though you are talented and skilled already. _Especially_ because you are. If you do, there may come a time when you shall do deeds of great honour with this, I think."

"I promise I will."

"Good." Fingon now looked a little aggrieved, his eyes flicking away from Ereinion momentarily, to where Melinduilas was waiting by the carriage. "Now, you really must be going." 

Ereinion nodded sadly, and Fingon pulled him into a tight hug, made difficult by the spear in Ereinion's hand. For a moment he was surprised, before burying his face in the wool of Fingon's cloak, hoping that somehow the king's warmth and strength would flow into him too.

At last Fingon released him, and placed his hand in Melinduilas'. He inclined his head to the two of them. "My lady" he said to Melinduilas. "I feel better knowing you shall be a wise council for Ereinion, as you always have been. He should be proud to have such a mother as you."

She bowed respectfully. "Thank you for everything you have done for us, your grace."

"Give my regards to Lord Círdan when you arrive, as well as the letters I sent along with you. That should be sufficient to make everything official"

Ereinion was about to ask what Fingon meant by this, when there came a bell from the guard tower above and the great gates began to open, ropes and hinges creaking and groaning. 

Fingon smiled sadly at that. "I suppose that is the signal that we must finish our goodbyes quickly. Go well, Ereinion Finellach. May the light shine upon thy path."

He gave a deep, formal bow to hide the tears that were stinging in his eyes. "And on yours, king Fingon."

\---------

The carriages drew away, and after a while Fingon looked over at Lalwen. Her face was stony, mouth compressed into a hard line. "Come" he said, after a while. "Let's go back to the council room."

She looked at him intently, and then nodded, her mouth tilting into a grim smile. "There's a war to be waged, after all."

"There is. And when it is won, then the ones who just left will return to us safe."

She nodded, slowly. Then she looked over at Fingon. "You didn't choose to tell him then?"

He let his eyes flicker closed for a moment. "He will find out, when he is ready. If all goes to plan, it shouldn't matter that I made him my heir, and in that circumstance I should be able to tell him myself. If not…"

Lalwen did not rush to assure him that everything certainly would go to plan, as most others did; he liked that about her. "If not, then Círdan will tell him. And at least he will be safe."

Fingon nodded. "Yes. Yes, he will."


	6. Epilogue - 472, First Age

The letter came when Ereinion was at his writing desk, trying to sketch a map of the beach front from memory. He put down his pen slowly, but his face twisted into an involuntary frown as he saw Círdan himself standing there. Usually messages were delivered by he door wards. 

Ereinion stood up, knocking his shin painfully against the side of the desk in his haste. 

Círdan did not immediately hand over the letter. "Finellach, I would have you know… well, I have suspected this for weeks now, since the battle, but now I know for sure. And I would have you warned that the news is… not good."

Ereinion nodded, taking the letter, which Círdan now gave him freely, breaking the plain white seal. 

His eyes ran over the words, not quite understanding, and then went over them again, and then once more. 

"Fingon is…" he managed, the words closing up his throat. His eyes caught on a line, and he drew in a sharp breath. "F - father…"

"Your father remained in Nargothrond" said Círdan, though there was a glint of something Ereinion could not quite identify in his eyes. "He did not choose to bring his strength to Fingon's aid."

Ereinion clenched the letter in his fist, fingers crushing the paper. It was not enough; he could not crush it small enough, he could not compress it out existence. "And Fingon… is… he is dead."

Círdan nodded his assent, reaching out as if to lay a hand on Ereinion's shoulder, then seeming to change his mind, drawing back. "I am sorry. He was a dear friend to me and I know he grew to love you, near the end."

Ereinion felt himself nodding numbly. "Who is king then?" he blurted out, the first question that came to mind. 

"Turgon of Gondolin is High King now, for you are not of age and thus not yet old enough to inherit, by the terms Fingon set out."

Ereinion's eyes widened as the words permeated his still shocked senses, even as waves of grief washed over him. He remembered when Círdan had informed him of Fingon's will to make him heir, several months ago now. _Before the battle_. It had not seemed real then, none of it, but now the truth of it began to unfold before him. "Turgon…" he frowned, trying to make sense of it all. But his mind was only saying, _Fingon is dead. He is dead, and hope died with him_. 

 _I never even got to say goodbye, not properly. I never got to thank him, tell him he was more a father to me than Orodreth ever was_. 

"Technically you have something of a claim" Círdan was saying, "though people may look askance at the last minute way in which Fingon made you his heir. Also, you are still too young…" 

His words tailed off into nothing, for Ereinion had stopped listening, crushing the paper even harder in his fist. "My… father…" was all he could say. _If Nargothrond had come to Fingon's aid, then perhaps he would still be alive_ … "Could it have been… different?" he beseeched. He needed to know.

"Perhaps" said Círdan heavily, looking at him sharply out of the corner of his eye. "Or perhaps not." He gazed sadly out of the window at the waves that pounded relentlessly on the shore and the harbour. For a moment his eyes went distant, unfocussed, as thought seeing something that Ereinion could not. Then his gaze cleared, and he sighed. "I cannot say. But my heart tells me that you _shall_ be king, some day. Perhaps sooner than you may think, for this world tends to darkness and tragedy, and often those who are young and unready are forced to step forward into the footsteps of those who are slain before them."

Ereinion opened his mouth, about to protest that he did not want to be a king, and then shut it again. "Yes" he said slowly. He stood up and came to stand by Círdan's side, watching the gulls wheeling over the grey sea. "Yes, I suppose if I must rule, then that is what I will do."

 _And if I must rule_ , he added to himself, _I will do it in the image of Fingon._

He looked up at Círdan. "Let me go" he said. 

Círdan inclined his head, raising an eyebrow. "Go where, young Finellach?"

"To fight. I want to fight the enemy!"

Círdan sighed, and there was sadness in his face. Sadness and pity, and it made Ereinion suddenly angry. "We both know that I cannot allow that" he said, voice remaining calm and measured. 

"Why?" demanded Ereinion. "I'm grown now… I want to fight! I want…" He clenched his fists. "I want… I want revenge. I'm not a child anymore! I'm of an age - "

"No you are _not_ " said Círdan, firmly. "I promised Fingon that I would keep you safe, even as he promised your father before - "

"Orodreth is not my father" spat Ereinion, through gritted teeth, with a ferocity that surprised even himself. "He is a traitor and a coward. He did not fight…"

But Círdan was sighing, shaking his head. "Young Finellach, I know you are angry - "

"Of course I'm angry!"

"But it is an anger fuelled by grief. And you are not the only one to grieve for Fingon."

Ereinion opened his mouth, but no sound came out. 

Círdan sighed, and for a moment Ereinion saw the commander who had brought a limping host back to the Havens, ragged and bloodstained, after the field had been lost. "A great battle has been fought. There is much that you do not know. There is much that _I_ did not know, or only guessed at, until I received this just today." He waved the letter that had carried the fateful news in the air before him. "The lands lie in ruin, the people of Fingon dead, what remains of the alliance scattered and broken. You would be fighting shadows, or orc scavengers, and you would die for nothing." He hesitated for a moment. "Besides… some may say that what your father did, not leading Nargothrond into this… was the wisest option all along."

Ereinion gritted his teeth, feeling hot, childish tears in his eyes, burning with shame. " _How can you say that_?"

Círdan spread his hands. "Fighting this war has brought us only death and destruction."

"You're just like him" he muttered, folding his arms angrily. "You would sit here in the Havens, all nice and _safe_ … well, I'm tired of other people dying to keep me safe!" His eyes strayed to Aeglos, where it lay with its point in its cover, in the stand behind the desk. He reached out to grasp the spear's haft. 

But even as he did so, he felt Círdan's hand grasp his wrist, quicker than he could have believed possible from the gentle old lord of the Havens. He looked up, and suddenly Círdan seemed to loom over him, his gaze no longer soft but sharp as the ragged rocks on the coast of the merciless sea. "Listen well, young lord" said Círdan. "If you are to be any kind of warrior at all - let alone a king - you must learn when to strike, and when to hold back. When to fight and when to take shelter. Rushing straight into any conflict, and, even more so, the thirst for revenge, will only get you killed, and then you will be no use to anyone."

Ereinion stared up at him, their eyes meeting, and Círdan held his gaze for a long moment, before releasing his wrist with a sigh. "I know Turgon son of Fingolfin. The crown is in the best possible hands for the moment, until you come of age" said Círdan. "And here, our people are safe. Grieve your king, rage at your father, go to your mother, practice your spearmanship, anything… but do not speak to me of war. Not yet, at least. Not so soon."

Ereinion blinked, feeling suddenly unable to speak. A great emptiness was filling him, and he felt tears roll freely down his face at last. He knew that Círdan too had fought in the great battle, and many of those of the Havens who had gone with him had not returned. Círdan spoke little of his own griefs, yet, thought Ereinion, he certainly bore them. Though Círdan had not seen Fingon die himself, Ereinion knew that Círdan would have suspected it, feared it, searched for confirmation, until it finally came. 

He nodded, numbly. "Very well. Of course. I… I am sorry."

Círdan smiled wanly, and gazed out of the window at the crashing waves in the bay outside. "So am I, truly. I foresee that you will make a great king, one day, Ereinion Finellach."

Ereinion smiled a little, looking out at the gulls wheeling overhead. "Yes" he murmured, so low that he thought perhaps only he could hear. "Yes. One day, I will."


End file.
